


Void's Daughter

by LeilaSecretSmith (orphan_account)



Series: Dragon's Son and Void's Daughter [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Assassin politics, Child Assassin, Child listener, Cicero is tempermental, Conflict of morality, Falkreath Sanctuary, Gen, General Tullius isn't an asshole to children, Hadvar is relieved, The Nightmother Speaks, We do not execute random children, sibling relationships, thank you very much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2018-11-14 02:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11198742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LeilaSecretSmith
Summary: Amara was always a strange little thing; so withdrawn, so shy, and yet so quick to anger.Now she's alone on the family farm in Whiterun, orphaned and all but abandoned by her elder brother, the oh-so-illustrious Dragonborn.It only takes one fortuitous encounter with an Imperial jester to reverse the course of fate.





	1. Prologue

 

[ ](http://imgur.com/lyoaBoF)

 

 **Morndas, Last Seed 17, 4E201**  
**9:30 am  
****Helgen**                

The two siblings huddled close together on the cart bench, the little girl hiding in her elder brother’s body as much as her bindings allowed. Ralof watched sadly, listening as the boy sang into the girl’s ear in a vain attempt to give her comfort. The boy, who was really more of a young man, kept his voice low so the irritable Imperial directing the horses wouldn’t have cause to shut him up; Ralof heard only faint snatches of the song over the wind and creaking of the old cart. From the boy’s other side, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak watched with the same kind of sadness as Ralof, though in his dark blue eyes the sadness was tempered by righteous anger at the Legion’s treatment of these Nordic children. Even the cowardly horse thief, shaking in his torn garments, showed a small measure of pity for the young pair.

They clattered into Helgen—and to their apparent executions—silently, all eyes focused on the youngest among them; Ralof spared a moment of his attention to glower at Elenwen and her Thalmor Justiciars as they passed; Ulfric did not spare the Altmer even so much as a glance. One of the legionnaires called out, declaring that the headsman was ready. The little girl sobbed loudly, terrified, as the cart pulled to a stop. The boy stopped singing and curled desperately around her form, as if he could shield her from the injustices of the Empire with his body.

“We’re going to be fine,” the cart’s occupants heard the boy whisper shakily as they stood and prepared to move. “We’ll get through this. You’ll be fine, I’m going to make sure of it.” He did not sound like he believed it; the girl was clearly not fooled.

Ulfric and Ralof were seasoned warriors, both graceful and sure-footed, and even the horse thief had some measure of balance; though bound, they managed to jump-slide the short distance to the ground and land with surety. The children, however, were not so fortunate. The boy landed with a stagger but quickly regained his footing. He moved to support his sister as much as he could, but with his hands bound there was little he could do. The girl whimpered quietly but made the jump; her legs buckled as she landed, and without the use of her hands to counterbalance or catch herself, she fell toward the unforgiving ground. Ralof made an instinctive move to help, but the boy beat him to it. In an impressively quick maneuver, he twisted his torso and fell to his knees, breaking his sister’s fall with his stomach and thighs.

Fortunately, the legionnaires were otherwise distracted as Ralof braced the boy and helped him to his feet. The girl sent him a quick look of thanks, hazel doe eyes wide and glistening, as she joined the line behind her brother.

“Step toward the block when he calls your name,” the Captain, a snappish Redguard woman, barked. The sun glinted harshly off the polished metal of her pauldrons. “One at a time!”

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.” Ralof’s eyes darkened with sadness as he recognized Hadvar’s voice. To his once-friend’s credit, he called the Jarl’s name with solemn neutrality.

“It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric,” Ralof said quietly as the Jarl moved away, steady and proud even as he walked to his execution.

“Ralof of Riverwood.” Pain flashed briefly through Hadvar’s eyes, but his face and voice remained utterly neutral.

The Stormcloak couldn’t resist one last jibe at his old friend as he walked past. “The Empire loves their damned lists,” he snarled under his breath, staring with accusing eyes. Hadvar looked steadily ahead.

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

The horse-thief seemed to finally reach the end of his rope as his name was called, hysterically insisting that he wasn’t a rebel before he made a suicidal run for freedom. Suicidal it proved to be; the Imperial archers downed him in seconds. The Captain’s snarled “anyone else feel like running” was his only eulogy.

The girl was shaking visibly by this point, a constant stream of tears running down her pale cheeks. The boy was similarly pale, though he seemed to be focused on his sister too much to truly panic. Hadvar finally realized that the two children were there, his blue eyes widening in shock.

“Wait. You two,” he said. “Who are you? What are you—” The soldier’s voice failed as he realized the children were bound like prisoners. A look of disturbed confusion crossed his face.

“I-I am Alar Clay-Shoes, of Whiterun,” the boy said, his voice trembling slightly. “This is my little sister Amara. We were coming back from our relatives’ home in Cyrodiil, but—but we got lost after this bear came into camp…” He began to ramble, his grey-blue eyes shining wetly as he finally got a chance to plead his innocence. “We didn’t mean to walk into the fight, really we didn’t, but I was scared the bear was still coming and didn’t want to risk going back a-and Amara and I still had both our packs, so I figured we should just keep walking, but suddenly there were _soldiers_ and everyone was _fighting_ and I drew my sword because I just wanted to keep Amara safe like I _promised_ and—and—but—“

“What’s this, now?” General Tullius, sufficiently distracted from glaring hatefully at Ulfric, walked over at the sudden commotion. His narrowed eyes landed on the two Nord children, one of whom was crying and trembling and the other who was hyperventilating as he tried to explain.

“We didn’t mean to, sir, really we didn’t”—the boy was nearly begging as he spoke—“but the soldiers wouldn’t _listen_ and they were hurting Amara and I just panicked, sir, really I didn’t—“

“Calm down, young man.” The General held up a quelling hand; Alar’s jaw snapped shut with an audible click. “Take a deep breath and tell me what happened, slowly.”

Alar deflated slightly, shutting his eyes and taking several deep breaths until the tremors in his limbs subsided. He lifted his head and squared his shoulders, meeting the General’s eyes steadily.

“I am Alar Clay-Shoes of Whiterun,” he said calmly, “and this is my little sister Amara, sir. We’ve been in Cyrodiil with relatives since the summer, after our parents died, but we were heading back so that I could take over the farm again. We made camp early yester—” Alar hesitated, brow furrowing as he realized that more time may have passed than he remembered. “Er, the day we were t-taken, sir, because Amara was tired, but a bear came sniffing around and decided we would make a good meal, so we ran. It was my fault, really, since I didn’t know where we were once we stopped running. I decided that we should just keep walking since we both had our packs and I wasn’t sure if we had really lost the bear. But we walked into the fighting, on accident, sir, I swear. Everything was so chaotic. I drew my sword just in case I had to protect Amara, but the Legionnaires thought I was a Stormcloak and someone _grabbed_ Amara a-and… I panicked, sir.” Alar’s face flushed with shame as he admitted this, ducking his head slightly. “One of the soldiers knocked me out, and when I woke up we were in the cart, sir.”

The General’s countenance was thoughtful and concerned as Alar looked back up at him, a pleading look on his young face. “We’re not rebels, sir, I _swear_ it.”

Tullius chuckled dryly at this and shook his head. “You know, son, I think it would be nigh on impossible to convince me your baby sister was a rebel.” A look of pure relief crossed the boy’s face at the General’s words. “And I’d wager that no self-respecting rebel captain would send a boy as young as you to guard Ulfric, especially without armor.”

“Yessir,” Alar agreed, nodding vigorously. Amara pressed into her brother’s side and nodded silently as well, hope clear in her eyes as she watched the General.

“I’d be a bad rebel, sir,” she offered solemnly, “I can’t even lift a sword yet.”

Tullius laughed aloud, his eyes softening in a distinctly parental way as he looked at the little girl. “And how old are you, young lady?” he asked gently.

“Eleven, sir,” she replied, blushing and hiding a little further behind her brother’s lanky body. “I’ll be twelve this winter.” Her eyes brightened as she looked up and chirped “and Alar’s going to be seventeen in Sun's Dusk!”

“Hm.” The Imperial rubbed his chin and looked thoughtfully back to Alar. “Well, son, I certainly believe you, but it would be better for everyone if you had some kind of proof.”

Alar looked down at his bloodied and worn boots, a sliver of pink tongue visible as he nervously licked his lips. “Er, well, we could… ah…” a thought seemed to dawn on him suddenly, and he looked down at his sister. “Mara, do you still have Aunt Lynette’s letter? The sealed one?”

“It—it’s in my pack, Alar,” she quavered, tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t know where it went.”

Alar turned back to General Tullius hopefully. “Amara kept the letter from our Aunt, sir. It was sealed with the Laebourn house crest and an official Imperial courier’s stamp, but it was in Amara’s pack.”

 The General nodded and looked around for a suitable errand-runner. “You there!” he said to the Captain, who straightened under his gaze. “Where are the prisoner’s items stored?”

“In the keep, General,” she responded crisply, a good deal less acerbic to the General than she had been to the Stormcloaks.

“Right then.” He turned back to the children. “Amara,” he prompted, “tell the Captain what your pack looks like.”

Amara opened her mouth, only to shrink back under the cold glare of the Captain; Alar quickly took over as she hid behind him. “It was a fur pack, Captain, made out of a pale gray wolf pelt. Ma—er, mother attached an Amulet of Mara to the clasp,” he said.

The Captain nodded briskly and walked away with a stiff back, clearly irritated at being sent on an errand like a common recruit. Amara peeked around her brother as the Redguard left, hazel eyes wide.

General Tullius glanced at the gathered rebels, frowning, and gestured for Hadvar to come closer. “Take these two into the keep,” he said. He lowered his voice and added, “they shouldn’t have to see this.”

Hadvar saluted, relief at the General’s decision obvious on his face. “Come, children,” he said, handing the ledger off to another soldier. Amara glanced uncertainly at General Tullius, who offered her a reassuring smile.

“Go on,” the Imperial said. “I’ll see you later to make sure you get an escort back to Whiterun.”

“Thank you, sir,” Alar said fervently, his grey-blue eyes shining with gratitude. “We won’t forget this, sir.”

Hadvar ushered the two children through the streets, making a mental note to cut their bonds as soon as possible. Poor Amara stuck right to her brother’s side, trying to hide from the curious eyes around them. Alar glared at anyone who stared at his sister for too long, doing the best he could to shield her.

Luckily, the keep wasn’t far at all. As soon as the doors shut behind them, Hadvar pulled a dagger from his belt and reached for Alar’s bound hands. “I’m going to cut your bonds, alright?” The boy stiffened nervously as Hadvar sliced through the leather ties, relaxing once they fell away.

“Thank you,” he said, rubbing at the red imprints the ties had left. Amara was much more skittish as Hadvar reached for her hands. “It’s alright, Mara,” Alar soothed, placing a hand on her shoulder. “He’s not going to hurt you.”

As soon as her hands were free, the little Nord climbed straight into Alar’s arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. The boy accepted this without complaint, hefting her onto one hip and running a calming hand down her back. He looked at Hadvar, whose expression was one of mingled guilt and softness.

“What now, sir?” he asked.

“Now, we wait,” Hadvar replied, leading his charges over to some chairs by the wall. “As soon as the reb—er,” he glanced at Amara and quickly amended his statement, “as soon as General Tullius is free, we’ll get you an escort.”

Alar nodded seriously and sat down across from Hadvar, placing Amara sideways in his lap. They stayed in awkward silence for a few minutes. Hadvar drummed his fingers on the table, glancing at the children occasionally. Alar closed his eyes and pressed his face against Amara, rubbing her back and murmuring quietly whenever she squirmed.

The Redguard Captain broke the silence when she came stomping into the atrium with a pack in hand. She spotted Hadvar and the children, stalked close enough to toss the pack onto the table, and stomped off again with a few muttered obscenities. Hadvar glared at her departing back.

Alar reached immediately for the pack, opening it one-handed, and pulled out a letter. “Here, sir,” he said, proffering the slip of paper. “Officially sealed and everything.”

Hadvar took the letter, noting the official seal, and quickly skimmed the contents. He offered the children a smile when he was done, and handed it back. “You’re in the clear, Alar.”

The boy practically melted in relief, clutching his sister—who still had yet to emerge from her hiding place in his shoulder—closer. “Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.

He opened his mouth to add something else, but suddenly a muffled _sound_ filtered in from outside. Hadvar and Alar both stiffened, exchanging alarmed looks.

“Shor’s bones, what was that!” Alar exclaimed, clutching Amara tighter.

Hadvar stood and moved in front of the children, his hand ready on his sword. “Get down,” he said urgently. Alar scrambled to take cover under the table, taking Amara with him and bracing her against the wall.

The sound came again, this time closer. The keep abruptly shook with a tremendous force, dust raining down from the ceiling. Hadvar staggered and drew his sword. The first screams started filtering in from outside.

_“Dragon!”_


	2. Darkness Rises When Silence Dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amara goes to the Loreius farm for some help fixing a leaky roof. Alar is gone, and the Nightmother has her opening.

**Morndas, Last Seed 31, 4E201  
** **10:46am  
** **Clay-Shoes Farm, Whiterun Hold**

_Drip… drip… drip…_

The roof was leaking again.

Amara stared listlessly as fat droplets of water accumulated along the crack above her head, only to fall down into the broken bucket below when they became too heavy. The rhythm they created was infuriating, a monotonous counterpoint to the drone of the rainstorm outside.

_Drip… drip… drip…_

The broken catch bucket was getting full. Soon, the water would spill over into the floorboards, soaking into the wood planks and causing them to swell if she didn’t dry them quickly. Someone would have to replace them if that happened.

_Drip… drip… drip…_

There was a perfectly good bucket in her room, down in the basement. It was full of paper rolls at the moment, but she could move those to her chest. Then the floorboards wouldn’t be damaged. Then no one would have to fix them.

_Drip… drip… drip…_

The roof was leaking again, but this time Alar wasn’t there to fix it.

This time, she’d have to go ask Loreius for his help. The Jarl’s housecarl had hired men to look after the fields and the animals of the Clay-Shoes farm—at Alar’s request—but there was no one to look after Amara or her house. No one but Loreius and his wife, the kindly farmers whose lands bordered theirs—hers.

_Drip… drip… drip…_

Amara stared listlessly at the fat droplets and decided that she'd ride to the Loreius farm as soon as the rain ended. Maybe she'd go now. Who cared if she died, cold and wet and alone? Alar wasn’t there anymore and Amara was a—

Her breath hitched in her throat as she _remembered_ , the smell of smoke and blood and burning skin fresh in her memory. A dragon above and a dragon within, in more ways than one. In more _people_ than one, though none but she knew it.

_Monster._

Amara stood abruptly. She was going out now, rain be damned.

* * *

 The storm had eased into a drizzle by the time she had dressed and saddled up her sweet old mare, Bryn. Her new cloak—a gift from Alar before he had left to find the Graybeards—easily repelled the rain. Her exposed hands, clutching the reins, quickly beaded with glimmering droplets. She didn’t bother to shake them off.

The road was nearly empty. Amara passed only a single Whiterun guard, who nodded to her respectfully but didn’t question why a little girl was riding alone. Everyone in Whiterun hold knew who she was now, she reflected morosely, staring out over the plains. Everyone knew poor little Amara Clay-Shoes, baby sister to the Dragonborn. Perhaps most venerated her; sister to a demi-god like Tiber Septim himself. Who could ask for more?

 _I could ask for more,_ she thought rebelliously, gripping Bryn’s reins so tightly that her knuckles went white. _I could ask for my brother back._

“Oh, bother and befuddle!” a voice shrieked in front of her.

Amara started, snapping her head up to see a very strange sight indeed. A wide, sturdy wagon was pulled off the road near the entrance to the Loreius farm, with one of the wheels obviously broken off. A man in a jester’s outfit was glaring down at it, speaking to himself in a shrill voice.

Stuck here! Stuck!” he moaned, stamping one foot like a petulant child. “My mother, my poor mother... Unmoving! At rest, but too _still._ ” He ran gloved hands over his face in apparent agony at his mother’s fate.

With a frown, Amara gently nudged Bryn toward the man, stopping close enough to speak to him but not so close that she couldn’t easily run. There was no other person in sight, but she could see a long box in the back of the wagon. This Cicero fellow must have been moving his mother’s corpse. “Whatever is the matter, sir?” she asked politely.

The man spun around toward her, and she was startled to see tears pooling in his eyes. _He must love his mother very much_ , she thought.

“Oh! Poor Cicero and his mother are stuck! Yes, stuck, because of this—this damndest wagon wheel! See!” He pointed to the incriminating wheel with a harassed expression and Amara nodded dutifully.

“Well,” she said delicately, trying not to set the obviously unstable man off. “I cannot fix it myself, but perhaps Loreius can? I will ask him, yes?”

Cicero’s expression twisted with anger at the name. “Cicero has asked Loreius! But he _refused_ to help poor Cicero and his mother!”

Amara shifted uneasily in the saddle, averting her eyes from the man’s furious visage. “Well, I—I will ask for you. I am sure there is some misunderstanding.” She spurred Bryn on before Cicero could reply, moving quickly to the open gate. The faint scent of nightshade blossoms tickled her nose as she passed the box that contained Cicero’s mother’s corpse.

The rain ceased entirely as Amara swung down and tied Bryn’s reins to a hitching post. She climbed the steps, avoided the squeaky board, and rapped quickly on the door.

“Oh for the love of Mara _what now?!_ ” Amara flinched backwards as Loreius wrenched open the door, a furious glare on his face. It softened immediately when he saw who was knocking. “Oh, Amara,” he said, scrubbing one hand across his tired eyes “I’m sorry, honey. Come inside.”

“Hello,” she said quietly, accepting a hug as he ushered her through the door.

“Amara!” Lorius’s Altmer wife, Curwe, came bouncing over a second later to embrace her with much greater fervor. “Did you ride all the way out here in this terrible weather, sweetie?” she asked in concern, guiding the little Nord over to the fire even as she deftly removed her damp cloak. “Go on, go sit by the fire. Lunch will be ready soon, so you just warm up until then.”

Curwe was always a little overwhelming. “The cloak kept me dry,” Amara assured her. “But the roof’s leaking again and—” she stopped abruptly, a lump in her throat.

_And Alar isn’t here to fix it anymore._

“I’ll go with you right after lunch, Amara,” Loreius assured her, his voice soft with sympathy.

“Thank you.” She fiddled nervously with her belt for a moment. “Could you, uh, could you also help that Cicero fellow?”

Immediately, Loreius’s face twisted with displeasure. Amara looked down quickly at that, missing the way Curwe glared at her husband. When she looked back up, his expression was apologetic.

“He’s asked me five times already, Amara,” he said. “I don’t know _what_ that man is transporting, but I don’t believe for a minute that it’s his mother. I don’t want to get involved with anything—anything illegal!”

Amara considered this for a moment as she sank into a chair by the fire. “But…” she said slowly. “But don’t you want him far away if he is doing something illegal? What if other, more dangerous people come to find him because he’s stuck?”

Loreius wavered visibly at the argument. “Well… I just…”

Curwe frowned. “Go fix the wheel, dear,” she said in exasperation. “I don’t think anyone will blame _you_ if he _is_ doing something bad.”

Grudgingly, Loreius went.

Curwe began chattering at her as soon as the door had shut. Amara zoned out after a few moments, staring contemplatively at the twisting flames in the hearth. Curwe never minded her inattention; the Altmer usually chattered just to chatter.

Some time later, a gentle nudge against Amara’s shoulder brought her back to the waking world. Ignoring the Altmer’s sympathetic smile, she silently accepted the bowl of stew. The smooth wood was warm against her palms and a wonderful smell wafted from it. Her earlier disinterest in food suddenly vanished, replaced by gnawing hunger. The little Nord quickly wolfed down the contents. 

“Hungry?” Curwe laughed as Amara proffered the bowl in a silent request for seconds, hazel eyes pleading. “Well, you should be. You’re growing like a weed!”

Loreius returned just as Amara was sopping up the last bits of stew with a piece of bread. His expression was a mixture of disquieted and relieved, eyebrows pinched together and lips pulled down. 

“That fool certainly is generous with his money,” he said, handing Curwe a small, fat pouch. He turned and handed Amara another, slightly smaller pouch. “He wanted to thank you in person,” the farmer explained in a displeased voice. “I told him to leave. Didn’t want him getting anywhere near you.”

Amara peered into the sack with wide eyes. Golden septims gleamed invitingly from within, more than she had ever held in her entire life. Hundreds, probably. She could buy so many books with this...

“I’m out of nails, I’m afraid,” Loreius continued as Amara gawked. “I’ll have to go into town today and get more. I’ll fix your roof first thing tomorrow, alright?” 

“Uh-huh,” Amara said absently, tying the pouch closed and double-knotting the laces. “Thank you. And thank you for the food, Curwe. It was delicious.” The Altmer lady cooed and insisted on a parting embrace, admonishing her to be safe. 

She slipped out the door as quietly as she had come in, shutting it silently behind her.

The gray, ponderous clouds of the morning had vanished, replaced by a clear blue sky. The sun shone brightly from his zenith, banishing any lingering chill. Bryn nickered happily when Amara untied her reins and swung up into the saddle. 

“Better weather, huh, girl?” She said, pausing to tuck her cloak away in a saddlebag. “Maybe other things will get better too.” 

Bryn’s hooves clipped sharply against the paving stones as she started home, creating a soothing rhythm. Again, Amara slipped into a reverie, contemplating the sudden darkness her life had fallen into. It was not a good thing to contemplate, but it was, perhaps, inevitable. Her mind was drawn into those ponderous thoughts as easily as a twig was dragged into a river’s current. 

“Oh! It is you, kindly child!”

For the second time that day, Amara was startled by the jester’s voice.

Cicero had stopped at the border between the Loreius farm and her own and was retying the ropes that secured his mother’s coffin. He beamed at her and hopped down from his perch with a strange, fluid grace. She tensed uneasily; the movement was too predatory, too catlike to suit a mere jester. Perhaps Loreius was right.

“Thank you, little one!” He enthused, either oblivious to or ignoring her discomfiture. “You have done Cicero and his mother a great service, oh yes!” 

“I—” The breeze reversed, blowing over Cicero’s cart and into her face. Again, the sharp scent of Nightshade tickled her nose. “No thanks are necessary,” she said weakly, her heart suddenly pounding. “I was just—” Warmth swept up from her toes, suffusing through her entire body. “...being…” The sentence stalled as she lost her breath.

Fragmented images began to flash through her mind. She saw the lower levels of the Helgen keep as she followed after her brother and Hadvar. She saw the ambush by Stormcloak rebels. She saw herself, cowering on the stairs where the men had left her, a knife clenched tightly in her hands. She saw the rebel at Alar’s back. She saw the rebel raise his sword high. 

She saw herself lunge forward and stab him in the back.

Something had snapped when she had done that. Something important. She had thought it had _broken,_ but now, as the intense warmth made her skin tingle, she realized that the strange, feral piece within her had not snapped asunder—it had snapped into place. 

Amara gasped raggedly and cried out, lips parted as tears poured down her face. She barely noticed as the jester slid her from the saddle. 

 _My dear child,_ a woman’s voice whispered in her head. Ethereal fingers seemed to cradle her face. _My dear, sweet child. Too soon, yet not soon enough._

Amara was overwhelmed, completely blind to the waking world. She knew this woman’s voice—or at least, she felt as though she should. It was velvety and soft with fondness, yet edged with steel, like a dark Empress speaking to a favored daughter. Amara had no doubt that this voice could annihilate her instantly. 

And yet, she loved the voice instantly. 

 _You must go with Cicero, my dear Listener,_ the woman continued. _There is nothing here for you now. But first, tell him these words: darkness rises when silence dies._

Then the voice left and Amara jolted back into wakefulness, gasping and sobbing like an exposed infant. She found herself laid out on the grass with Cicero hovering over her, his eyes wide with confusion. 

“You are back,” he said in surprise as she wrestled her sobbing to a stop. “Where did you go, kindly child? Where did you go that caused such… _madness_?” 

“She suh-spoke to me,” Amara hiccupped as Cicero helped her sit upright. “She spoke to me a-and then she _left_.” More fat tears rolled down her cheeks before she could stop them. “She left me.” 

“She?” asked Cicero slowly, his voice rich with some emotion that the little Nord couldn’t quite identify. He stared at her with a piercing intensity, one hand still gripping her elbow. Amara met his eyes and remembered the phrase the voice had given her, remembered the life-altering weight it had carried. 

In that moment, Amara made her decision.

“She said, ‘darkness rises when silence dies.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally headcanon that the Nightmother sounds and feels like whatever her Listeners need. In this case, her voice isn't horrible and rasping, but soft and maternal (in a very loose sense).


	3. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cicero is enthusiastic. Amara, not so much.

**Morndas, Last Seed 31, 4E201  
** **1:37 pm  
** **Clay-Shoes Farm, Outskirts, Whiterun Hold**

 

The words hung between them like tangible things.

 

Cicero stared at Amara in wide-eyed shock, utterly speechless. His grip on her elbow slackened and fell away. Amara stared back, fisting her hands in the fabric of her tunic uncertainly. Had she made a mistake? The Lady hadn’t lied to her, she was certain, but Cicero did seem rather unpredictable.

 

Finally, in a hoarse and reverent voice, he spoke. “Those are the _words,”_ he whispered, leaning closer to peer intently into her eyes, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. “Those are the binding _words_. And you— has our Lady…?”

 

Amara blinked back at him in vague confusion. Our Lady? Who—? Her eyes widened in sudden realization and she glanced at the nearby coffin. _Mother_ , of course! Cicero wasn’t transporting an ordinary corpse. He revered her, if ‘Mother’ and ‘Our Lady’ were any indication.

 

Suddenly, Cicero whooped and leapt to his feet, nearly startling Amara into bolting. “She’s back!” he cried, picking Amara up by the waist and lifting her high in the air. “Our Lady is back!” The little Nord shrieked in surprise as Cicero spun her in a circle, laughing jubilantly. “She has chosen a Listener! She has chosen _you!_ ”

 

He stopped abruptly, holding her up at arm’s length in front of him, and stared intently into her wide hazel eyes. Amara froze under the scrutiny. “You are so… small,” he observed, a thoughtful frown twisting at his lips. “So little. A Little Listener.” His expression sobered into something approaching sanity. “How old are you, little one?”

 

“El—eleven,” she said, squirming under the weight of his stare. “Twelve in Morning Star.”

 

He stared for a moment longer before the unnervingly lucid look in his eyes faded away and his grin returned. “Cicero will teach you!” He said, spinning the both of them in another wide circle. “Cicero will teach you everything, little listener!” He laughed. “Oh, come, come! We must go to our new home, all three of us, yes!”

 

“New...home?” Amara repeated, suddenly afraid. The Lady had said to go with him, but... Her fingers curled into Cicero’s sleeves as ice pooled in her stomach. Again, she wondered if she had made a mistake.

 

“Yes, yes!” Cicero said, either ignoring or failing to notice Amara’s fear. “New home! Oh, Cicero and mother were going, and now the Little Listener will come too!” He giggled and finally set her down.

 

Doubt and fear of the unknown choked Amara as she watched the jester caper about. Leave and go where? The wind rose again as she trembled, indecisive. Nightshade filled her lungs. Her shaking slowed to a stop. The tiniest, faintest bit of the Lady’s presence nudged at the back of Amara’s mind. _Trust me,_ she said. The little Nord swallowed hard.

 

“I have to get my things,” she said, raising her voice just enough for Cicero to hear. “Then we can—” her voice wavered. _Trust,_ she reminded herself. “Then we can leave.”

 

Cicero turned and beamed at her. “Of course, Little Listener!”

 

Bryn, praise the Divines, was patiently waiting by the cart, grazing on grass that grew by the roadside. Amara’s hands shook as she swung up into the saddle and took the reins. It was too late to turn back, now that she had told Cicero the words. He wouldn’t let her go so easily, she knew.

 

Amara kicked her heels sharply into Bryn’s flanks, urging the mare into a gallop. She didn't bother to wait for Cicero. He would catch up, and she wanted a few minutes of silence to gather herself before she had to face his strange jubilation again.

 

“What have I done, Bryn?” she asked, leaning down and pressing her forehead into the mare’s neck. She breathed deeply, washing away the lingering nightshade with musky hay and damp horsehair. A thought struck her. “What is Alar going to think? Oh, Divines,” she moaned. “He’ll return and find me gone!”

 

 _Who cares?_ A poisonous little part of her asked. _Who cares? He left you behind. Now you leave him behind. It’s only fair._

 

Until that moment, Amara hadn’t been angry at Alar for leaving. She had been sad and scared, sure, not _angry_. But as the poisonous little voice whispered in the back of her head, a wave of fury overtook her, sending hot tremors down her spine. She gritted her teeth as sat up straight, knuckles going white as she squeezed Bryn’s reins.

 

“Why shouldn’t he know what it feels like?” she asked out loud as Bryn galloped through the gate and up toward the farmhouse. “He’s the one who left me alone. He _deserves_ it.”

 

She vaulted off her mare’s back, hitting the ground with a satisfying thump, and paused just long enough to tie the reins to the hitching post before she stormed into the house. The door slammed shut behind her, shaking lingering water droplets loose of the leaky roof and into the overfull catch buckets below.

 

She wanted to scream and yell and break something. Fury pounded at her insides, waking the feral little piece of her that had been unleashed so recently. She wanted a blade in her hands and the feeling of warm, sticky blood dripping down her fingers. She wanted to _hurt_ someone.

 

Instead, she stopped.

 

Amara exhaled slowly, leaning back against the solid weight of the door. Thick knots and whorls pressed into the skin of her back through her thin tunic. The little Nord closed her eyes and pretended it was her papa’s calloused hands pressing comfortingly between her shoulder blades, safe and warm and steady. Silent tears dripped from her chin and pattered softly to the floor.

 

 _What am I becoming?_ she wondered.

 

At length, she stood and went to her bedroom, wiping her face clean as she walked. _Trust_ , she reminded herself, snagging her empty pack from the edge of the stairs and climbing down into the basement. It was a mess, of course, because who was left to remind her to clean up after herself? She picked up important articles of clothing as she went, stuffing them into the pack uncaringly, then sorted through the wardrobe with the same methodic apathy.

 

Her books—what few she had inherited—were lined up neatly on the table next to the wardrobe. She hesitated, then gathered them into a neat stack and double-bound them with some spare leather ties. Her meager drawing and painting supplies went into the most sturdy basket available. This, too, she bound closed. The books and the basket went upstairs, set by the door, but when she returned for her pack, she faltered. This was her room, the home she had shared her whole life with Alar, and she was about to leave it behind, maybe forever.

 

She squeezed her eyes shut, though a few hot tears escaped anyways.

 

“I miss you,” she said quietly, leaning against the wall for support. “Mama. Papa. I really miss you. Would the Lady have spoken if you were still here?”

 

She didn't know.

 

Hollow and aching, she trudged back upstairs and began gathering food into a spare sack. There was no point letting it spoil, and no one else would be in to eat it. She banked the fire and put away the pots and dishes, clearing the table. The empty, wide expanse of wood beckoned her to leave something for Alar. A note, perhaps. Amara chewed on her lip, indecisive, before retrieving a scrap of paper and some charcoal.

 

 _Might as well tell him I’m not dead,_ she thought.

 

She had just written the last word when there was a knock on the door, as portentous and weighty as the tolling of a temple bell. Amara pressed her fist against her mouth, stifling a sob. _Trust,_ she reminded herself forcefully. She left her note on the table and walked to the door; each step felt like a mile. Her hand shook when she reached for the handle, but her eyes had finally dried.

 

 _Trust_ , she thought again, more strongly, and opened the door.

 

Cicero beamed down at her, though something unreadable curled behind his eyes as he examined her face. His wagon was parked just outside the front garden, her vehicle to an uncertain destiny.

 

“Are you ready, little Listener?” the jester asked cheerfully.

 

“Yes,” Amara said. She was proud that her voice only wavered a little bit. She picked up the block of books and the basket, cast one final look back, then stepped out and locked the door behind her.

 

The tumblers slid into place with a heavy click that echoed in her very bones.

 

Cicero loaded her meager belonging into the back of the wagon with extreme care, even reverence, then lifted her into the front by her waist. Amara frowned a little at the manhandling, but was too tired to protest. She settled down on the bench and pulled her hood up, curling into a miserable little ball as the jester secured Bryn’s lead to the rear of the wagon.

 

At least one friend would follow her.

 

Cicero lept up onto the bench with feline grace, offering another giddy smile as he took the reins. “To our home, Little Listener,” he said. The wagon started forward with a lurch.

 

“Yeah,” Amara said softly, casting one final look back at the house. “Home.”

* * *

**Bonus:**

**Amara Watercolor Sketch**

[ ](https://imgur.com/Djyoupf)


	4. Inescapable Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amara confronts the inevitable.

**Morndas, Last Seed 31, 4E201  
** **2:30 pm  
** **The Road to Falkreath, Whiterun Hold**

 

Surprisingly, Cicero left her alone for the first hour or so. He hummed tunelessly, filling the silence. Amara stared out at the road, following the fluttering paths of butterflies as the wagon trundled slowly through the plains. No one else was on the road, save patrolling guardsmen. She even knew the names of some. After the first few paused in their rounds and stared intently at her face, Amara realized that it _would_ be rather strange to see her on a random man’s wagon. She hid her face after that.

Cicero finally broke the companionable silence when they passed the road to Whiterun, continuing on toward Riverwood. Amara was intensely grateful that he hadn't turned toward the city; nearly everyone around Whiterun, from Honningbrew to Dragonsreach, knew her, and she was sure her presence on the jester’s wagon would have raised many awkward and unanswerable questions.

“Has the Little Listener ever traveled?”

Amara blinked and glanced at him curiously. “Yes,” she said, absently running the hem of her cloak through her fingers. “Papa took me to meet his friends at the College up in Winterhold when I started practicing magic. Then, when Mama and Papa… when they died, we went to Cyrodiil to stay with my Auntie Lynette.”

Winterhold had been amazing. Papa’s friends were all so powerful and intelligent, and they hadn’t looked at her sputtering fireballs with disgust or fear. It amazed her, still, that Papa had been so brave and full of love that he had given up his position in the College to marry Mama and take over the farm when Grandpapa had died. Amara didn’t think she would have been that selfless. But when she had told Papa, he had simply smiled and swung her up onto his strong shoulders. “My little darling,” he had said, “one day you will have the dragon-fire of Talos in your heart too, and then you’ll understand how a sacrifice can become no sacrifice at all.”

This, perhaps, was her dragon-fire moment. She wondered if Papa had been this scared.

Cyrodiil, on the other hand, had been a unique blend of awful and good. Auntie Lynette was married to an important statesman and thus lived in the Imperial City, with it's high white walls and bustling streets. It had been quite a rude shock to go from the rough, honest cities of Skyrim to the bizarre delicacy and politicking of the Empire. But her aunt, uncle, and cousins had all welcomed her and Alar with open arms and heartfelt condolences. Uncle Ned had even offered to adopt her into his household so she could take lessons from the tutors who taught his three daughters, Emelia, Julia, and Minette.

Alar, of course, had refused. “She belongs on the farm with me,” he had insisted, tucking her under one arm. “Besides, Papa wanted her to go to the College of Winterhold when she came of age.”

Amara’s mouth tasted bitter when she remembered his words. He hadn't _meant_ them as lies, but he was surely quick to forget. She wished he had left her in Cyrodiil.

“Hm, well-traveled indeed,” Cicero said with a smile.

Amara side-eyed him thoughtfully and acknowledged that whatever she had gotten herself into was undoubtedly better than staying alone on the farm. It might, perhaps, even prove to be better than staying with her Aunt and Uncle. That remained to be seen, but surely being spoken to by a cosmic entity like Mother counted for _something._

“Did you like traveling?”

Amara fidgeted, looking off the side. “I… I liked traveling with my papa. And… Alar was good company.”

Cicero hummed neutrally. “Our family travels often from the Sanctuary. You will grow to like it, Cicero thinks. It can be quite… freeing.” He sounded strangely wistful, though Amara couldn’t fathom why.

She was intrigued by his statement, though. “Cicero, who… who’s our family?”

Cicero blinked at her in surprise. “Oh. You do not know who Mother is? Hm.”

Amara chewed the edge of her lip self-consciously. “Should I know?” she asked hesitantly.

“No, no,” he said, waving a gloved hand dismissively. “Cicero just thought… well, it does not matter. Cicero will tell you, but not now. Tonight, perhaps, when we are not on the open road.”

Amara frowned thoughtfully. What was so important about their new “family” that he couldn't tell her now? Then again, ‘Mother’ must have been some kind of daedra. Perhaps an aedra, but then what would there be to conceal?

Still, the dismissal rankled her and she scrunched her nose in distaste. “Is there anything you _can_ tell me?” she asked with childish impatience.

Cicero laughed, unbothered by her demand. The wagon trundled slowly over a bridge, the river beneath burbling as if in agreement. Amara glanced quickly over her shoulder, feeling a pang in her heart as Whiterun began to fade into the distance. Once they traversed the upcoming switchbacks, she wouldn’t even be able to see it.

“Truth be told,” Cicero said, distracting her, “Cicero does not know much about our new family. Cicero can only speculate.”

“Oh… did they invite you to join?”

“Yes, of course. Cicero is the Keeper. It is a great honor to host the Keeper.” He gave her an unreadable look. “It is an even greater honor to host the Listener.”

Amara wanted to ask _why_ , but Cicero probably wouldn’t have told her anyway, so she fell silent. But then… what if she was the only one who could hear Mother? That prompted another question: what was Mother going to say to her? Through her? A frustrated little pulse formed in the back of her head. What was her purpose in all of this? She was just a random farmer’s child, nothing special. If anything, Mother should have picked Alar; he had a _dragon’s soul_ , for Talos sake!

A gloved finger suddenly poked Amara’s cheek, jolting her from her frustrated brooding. She looked up to find Cicero squinting down at her, head cocked to the side.

“You were frowning quite… murderously, little Listener,” he said by way of explanation. His eyes were bright with curiosity, glowing nearly amber in the sunlight. “Why?”

Amara scowled and huddled up beneath her cloak, debating whether or not to tell Cicero her true thoughts. “I… I don’t understand why Mother spoke to me,” she admitted at length. “She should have spoken to Alar, not me. He’s _important_ , at least.” The words were bitter, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

This seemed to be not at all what Cicero expected her to say, if his surprised blink was any indication. “Little Listener _is_ important,” he said slowly. “Cicero does not know what Mother knows, but he is _sure_ that she knows what she is doing.” He arched one eyebrow. “Do you know better than Mother?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Amara snapped. “I just—I don’t understand! There’s nothing special about me! If there was, I—I would have been able to save Mama and Papa.”

And there it was. As the words escaped her, she suddenly realized _that_ was why she felt so uncomfortable. Why was she useful enough to be spoken to by a daedra, but not useful enough to save her parents?

There was a long pause as Cicero considered her statement. “Little Listener is only eleven,” he said slowly, consideringly. “Younger, perhaps, when her parents were killed. It was not the Little Listener’s job to save her parents.” Another pause, then, quieter, “and if your brother is so important, why couldn’t he?”

Amara jolted in surprise. She hadn’t considered that. Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly, but no sound came out, and she was left wide-eyed and confused as she considered the question: why _couldn’t_ he?

* * *

 

Amara was no closer to an answer when the sun finally dipped below the horizon. They had passed through Riverwood, Whiterun long behind them, and continued on towards Falkreath for several hours. Cicero deliberately left her to her silent ruminations as he bustled about, preparing their shelter for the night, tending to the horses, and lighting a fire.

It was only when she was settled on a bedroll in front of the roaring campfire that he addressed her. “Cicero promised the Little Listener that he would tell her of her new Family,” he said, tossing one final log into the circle of stones. Amara nodded eagerly, immediately distracted from her painful and unanswerable question.

Cicero hummed and settled down one his bedroll next to her, waiting until she had shifted around to face him before continuing. His posture was relaxed, his eyes clear and lucid. “Our new Family is the last one left. We had many, once, but they were purged.” His expression grew dark. “We serve the Night Mother, who was once enshrined in her sacred crypt in Bravil, but the—bad people, unholy people, they did not care for Mother. Cicero barely managed to flee, and his family was killed giving him that chance.”

Amara exhaled shakily, her eyes filling with sympathetic tears. She knew what that felt like, at least.

“The Family listens to the Night Mother through _you_ , Little Listener. Only, we have not had a Listener in a long, long time. Cicero does not know what this Family has been doing in the absence of Her words.”

“Cicero,” Amara asked tentatively when he paused. “What will Mother say to me? What does she want me to do?”

The Imperial’s half-hooded, sober eyes darkened further, and his visage suddenly became terrifying in the flickering light of the fire. “Are you certain you want to know?” he murmured, moving close enough that their legs nearly touched at the knees. “I will tell you, but you must be certain. You cannot run away.”

“I have to know,” she said, swallowing hard. Cicero’s use of first person slid past her unnoticed, fitting perfectly with the strange, otherworldly mood the conversation had taken on. “I won’t run.”

He nodded slowly, and she straightened her spine, tensing in preparation. Whatever he was going to say, she knew she wouldn’t like it. She also knew she had to hear it. It was inescapable. “The Night Mother is the bride of Sithis,” said he, voice rasping and dark. “The Night Mother speaks the words of the Void to _you_ , Amara. The Night Mother will tell you who has been consigned to the Void, and we will carry their will out, unquestioning and merciless. Do you understand?”

 _Assassins,_ her mind translated helpfully, _you’ve been chosen to be an assassin._ Amara closed her eyes and breathed slowly through the disbelief. _Talos,_ she prayed, tears slipping unbidden down her cheeks. _What have I done?_

But there was nothing for it. Even before she had heard Mother’s voice, she had been on this path. The little Nord understood that now. She had always been bloodthirsty and raging, always prepared to strike without mercy. Now she knew why.

There was no turning back.


	5. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amara is not the only one who's nervous.

**Tirdas, Hearthfire 1, 4E201** ****  
**6:00am** **  
** **The Road to Falkreath, Falkreath Hold**

Amara quickly learned that Cicero wasn’t going to let her do any work _at all_ on their journey.

When they broke camp at dawn the next day, it was Cicero who banked the smouldering remains of the fire, prepared the wagon, and hitched up the horses. When he finished, he simply wrapped her still-slumbering self up in a blanket and lifted her into the front of the wagon, which is why she woke up drooling on his shoulder two hours later.

Normally she would have enjoyed the lack of chores immensely, but after recent events she was practically bursting with nervous energy that had nowhere to go. After an hour of bugging Cicero, he finally let her get down and jog next to the wagon for a bit, though he pulled her back up before she felt truly calm.

There was a single moment of excitement in the day when two extremely stupid bandits tried to hold them up.

“Close your eyes, Little Listener,” Cicero said. A wild, crazed grin grew on his face as he stared down the suddenly uncertain bandits. Amara thought this was rather odd even as she obeyed. Why spare her from a gruesome sight? She was set to become an assassin, after all.

The bandits both screamed shrilly as Cicero cackled and lept from the wagon like a rabid Sabrecat. Their cries quickly cut off, replaced by weak gurgles and the liquid squelch of tearing flesh. Amara shuddered where she sat, recalling the sensation of a knife in her hand, of bone giving way beneath her fury. The sharp scent of blood filled the air.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Cicero said with a giggle. Cloth rustled, then leaves. A heavy body thudded against the ground some distance away, followed shortly by a second. A few more seconds of rustling cloth and then warm, gloved fingers closed gently around her hands, pulling them away from her eyes. The wild, crazed look in Cicero’s eyes had faded into something more like dark satisfaction. He examined her face—looking for what, she did not know—then nodded sharply and climbed back into the wagon.

Amara glanced back once at the red-stained dirt as they departed.

They camped by lake Ilinalta for the night, and Amara spent a long time watching the light of the campfire reflect across the gently-lapping water. Eventually Cicero managed to coax her down onto her bedroll. Despite her nervous, pent-up energy, she was soon fast asleep.

Again, she woke on Cicero’s shoulder well past sunrise.

“Are we almost to Falkreath?” she asked groggily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. The forest rose high around the path on either side, though lake Ilinalta was occasionally visible through the trees on her side.

“Yes, noon should see us there,” Cicero said cheerfully. He reached down between his feet to retrieve a waterskin and bread. Amara took them gratefully.

“And then how far to the Sanctuary?”

“A few hours, no more. We will arrive by nightfall.”

Nervous fear bubbled in her stomach, but she quashed it with a deep breath and a swig of cool water. “Oh, alright,” she said lamely, and fell silent.

Amara was still silent when they pulled into Falkreath, nervously braiding and unbraiding her hair. The townspeople largely ignored their slow passage through the town, though Cicero’s strange attire garnered a few inquisitive stares.”Relax, little one,” the jester said when Amara startled so badly at the sudden baying of a hound that she nearly toppled off the wagon.

Amara, drawn taut as a bowstring by apprehension, thought this easier said than done.

They passed through Falkreath without incident, reentering the forest as the sun began its descent. Three hours into the last leg of their journey and Amara felt like she was going to vibrate straight through her seat. Finally, Cicero sighed shortly and stopped the wagon.

“Sleep,” he commanded, lifting her into the back without ceremony. “Take a nap, Little Listener. You are going to hurt yourself.”

“I'm not tired,” she mumbled tiredly, but nonetheless curled up in the space between Mother’s coffin and the side of the wagon. Warmth—the barest hint of Mother’s presence—curled around her, and within minutes she was asleep.

* * *

 

Astrid paced the length of Arnbjorn’s forge with quick, agitated strides. The Keeper was due at any moment—was at least a day late, in fact, and with each hour he didn’t appear her nerves ratcheted up a notch. She wasn’t worried about the man himself, despite the insanity that fairly oozed from his letters. No, she was worried his presence would destabilize her own position in the Sanctuary.

“Astrid, love,” Arnbjorn sighed, setting down the leather plate he was mending when his wife passed him for the hundredth time. “You’re going to wear a trench into the floor if you keep that up.”

“This is _infuriating_ ,” she said, not stopping. “Sithis take him, what could delay the Keeper? He should be here by now!”

As if in response to her exasperated comment, they heard the door to the Sanctuary open. Astrid straightened, frantically smoothing her hair back, and took a deep, calming breath. “Get the others, I’ll greet him,” she said with forced calm.

Arnbjorn grunted in acknowledgment as Astrid strode determinedly to the stairs, taking them two at a time, and stopped before the table that held her map. She stood facing the entrance, hands clasped behind her back, and quickly smoothed her expression into one of cool welcome. The soft footsteps drew closer—audible, she knew, only because he wanted her to hear. She prepared herself to face the Keeper.

But she hadn’t (couldn’t have) prepared herself for what he brought with him.

She took in his appearance in a split second as he rounded the corner. He was only a little taller than the average Imperial, with reddish hair and a dangerous, half-crazed expression on his face. An ebony dagger hung from the belt of his Jester’s motley. All this she had expected, if not so explicitly.

What Astrid was most certainly not expecting was the child sleeping in his arms.

The welcome she had carefully prepared died in her throat as she stared. For a second she thought it might be an un-child, like Babette, but there was no undead pallor to her skin; the child’s face was tanned and rosy-cheeked. Her brownish-blonde hair, nearly the same color as Astrid’s, was pulled back in a messy braid that hung over Cicero’s arm. Her dress was dirty and much-loved, made out of dark blue homespun cloth. If Astrid had to guess, she would have placed the girl’s age around ten or so.

In short, she looked exactly like a normal farmer’s child.

Cicero didn’t say a word as he came to a stop in front of Astrid, an expectant smile on his face. His eyes glimmered with mischief, and Astrid realized he had expected exactly this reaction. She quickly composed herself.

“Welcome to the Falkreath Sanctuary, Keeper,” she said. “I wasn’t aware you were going to bring your daughter.”

Cicero laughed as if she had just told the best joke in the world, only quieting when the child in his arms murmured and shifted. “Daughter!” he chortled. “No, no, Amara is not Cicero’s daughter.”

 _Oh joy, he speaks in third person,_ commented the sarcastic voice in the back of Astrid’s head. This was dismissed in favor of focusing on the girl and her relation—or lack thereof—to Cicero. “Ah, forgive the assumption,” she said, dipping her head slightly in apology. “How is she related to you, then?” It wasn’t the most subtle of cues, but Astrid couldn’t bring herself to care.

“She’s not!” said Cicero jovially. “Little Amara is much better than a _relation_ , oh yes!” For a split second Astrid’s mind went horrible places, but Cicero continued. “Cicero found her on the outskirts of Whiterun two days ago. Amara is a very special little girl, but Cicero would prefer to tell this story only once, if the Lady does not mind.”

Had he _kidnapped_ a random Nord child?

“Of course,” Astrid said slowly, seeing no better option. “Right this way.”

The rest of the family was assembled and waiting near the forge. More than a few eyes widened upon seeing the child in Cicero’s arms. Astrid quickly introduced each assassin before yielding the floor to Cicero.

The Keeper beamed. “Well met,” he said, his eyes sweeping over the assassins. “Cicero has wonderful news, oh yes!” He paused, relishing the tension. “Our Lady has returned! Our Lady has chosen a Listener!” Shock rippled through the group and Astrid felt her innards turn to ice. _Oh no,_ she thought, briefly closing her eyes.

Festus was quickest on the uptake, his eyes locked on the child sleeping in the Keeper’s arms. “You don’t mean… the girl…?” he asked in an awed and disbelieving tone.

“Yes, yes!” Cicero giggled, dancing in place. “The Little Listener!”

Another wave of shock rippled through the group. ‘When’ and ‘how’ and ‘a _child_ Listener’ seemed to be the primary questions. Babette in particular was staring at the girl with thoughtful, narrowed eyes.

“Mother has chosen well,” the Keeper said, waving off most of their bewildered questions. “Cicero can see it. Little Amara is fierce and cunning, though there is much for her to learn. She will grow strong”—he looked directly at Astrid—”in time.”

Astrid read the subtext clearly: _she’s not a threat to you right now._

Well. She tapped her lips thoughtfully, offering a tiny nod of acknowledgment. That certainly gave her much to consider, if nothing else.

“Now, the Little Listener must be put to bed,” he continued, “and Cicero must attend to Mother before he can retire as well.”

Gabriella stepped forward without prompting, holding out her arms. “Forgive our lack of accommodations, Keeper,” she said calmly. “You’ll have to share your room with… the Listener, or sleep in the common room. I can put her to bed while you attend to the Night Mother.”

Cicero looked at the Dunmer for a long, considering moment. Finally, he nodded and passed Amara over.  Gabriella easily accommodated her weight, then turned and vanished into the depths of the Sanctuary.

Nazir and Festus followed Cicero to retrieve the Night Mother’s coffin. Babette and Veezara vanished after Gabriella, presumably to try and work out some new sleeping arrangements, leaving Astrid and Arnbjorn alone in front of the forge.

“Well,” Arnbjorn commented dryly as he returned to his project. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“No,” Astrid agreed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Neither did I.”


	6. The Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some first impressions

**Middas, Hearthfire 2, 4E201  
** **4:56am  
** **Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, Falkreath Hold**

Amara woke alone, curled up on a rickety cot and covered in several thick furs. Cold, damp air nipped at her exposed face. She shivered and groaned, curling up into a ball beneath the warm furs.  _ Wait,  _ she thought,  _ where am I? _

Slowly, she peeked out of her makeshift den. The room was dusty and full of cobwebs, though 'cave’ might have been a more accurate description than ‘room.’ Cicero’s bag was sitting on a nearby table, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen.

It didn’t take a great leap of logic to realize that she was in the Sanctuary, trapped with her new assassin ‘Family.’

Amara made a high, whining sound in the back of her throat and ducked back under the furs, curling up into a pathetic ball. Terror and despair crashed over her in a black wave, constricting her chest and making it difficult to breathe. “Talos,” she prayed in a choked whisper, then stopped. What was there to pray for? What was there to fix? As terrible as the realization was, she hadn’t made a mistake. This was as inevitable as the setting of the sun, and she had best get up and deal with it.

She did not  _ want _ get up and deal with it.

It was only the pressing urge to find Cicero that convinced her to emerge from her den fifteen minutes later. She was still wearing her dress from the night before, but her boots had been removed and set neatly by the cot. She was quick to tuck her toes into the fur-lined warmth of her boots—the stone floor was both dirty and freezing.

Amara made an unhappy noise at the cold, picking up one of the furs and draping it over her head and shoulders as a makeshift cloak. Cautiously, she poked her head out of the archway that led into the room. When nothing appeared immediately to slit her throat, she took one step out into the unknown, then another. She breathed in shakily, clutching the fur in a white-knuckled grip.

Amara slowly crept through the hallways, peeking in each open door as she passed. There was no sign of Cicero—or anyone else, for that matter—until she felt a warm, ghostly hand brush against her cheek. “Mother,” she breathed in relief, hurrying along after the beckoning sensations.

Mother’s sarcophagus was standing on a low dais in a chapel-like room, framed beautifully against a stained-glass window. Amara hurried between the benches and sank down beside the sarcophagus, pressing her cheek against the chilled metal. Nightshade and ash and blood filled her nose. “Hello, Mother,” she whispered, tearing up as the presence wrapped firmly around her. “I obeyed.”

_ You did, my dear Daughter,  _ she said, fondness in her voice. Warm, intangible lips ghosted over her forehead.  _ Obedience will always be rewarded in my House.  _ Love and approval flooded Amara’s soul so intensely that she burst instantly into tears of joy.

“I’ll always obey you, Mother,” she sobbed worshipfully, pressing closer against the freezing coffin. “Always and always, I promise.”

Mother hummed in amusement, kissing Amara’s forehead once more.  _ Now, go on, my Listener,  _ she said, gently nudging the little Nord.  _ Go meet your Family.  _  Amara stood at once, still giddy with emotion, and kissed the coffin before she left. She had barely stepped out of the chapel when Cicero appeared beside her. 

“Cicero!” she squeaked, practically jumping on the man.

“Little Listener!” he said with equal enthusiasm, sweeping her up. “I see you found Mother.”

“I did!” Amara chirped, wrapping her legs around his waist and arms around his neck. “She’s pleased with me!”

Cicero laughed and patted her back. “How could she be displeased with you, little Amara? You are obedience incarnate. But come now, there are some people you must meet.” He put her down, keeping a hand between her narrow shoulders, and steered her away from Mother’s chapel.

Amara’s stomach swooped dramatically at the reminder, but, still riding high on Mother’s approval, she followed obediently. Cicero led her through a kind of common room, filled with beds and strewn-about personal items, and down a steep ramp. At the bottom was a deep pit-like room, with a cooking fire roaring to one side and a long table in the center. Two people—the early risers—were sitting at the table. 

One was a Nord woman, fierce-looking with dark blonde hair. The other was Argonian. They both looked up as she and Cicero approached. Amara didn’t miss the way their eyes lingered on her. She ducked a bit closer to Cicero, blushing shyly as the warm glow of Mother’s approval began to fade.

The Argonian spoke up before Cicero could, his voice kind. “Hello, Listener,” he said. “I am Veezara. It’s quite a pleasure to meet you.”

“Hello Veezara,” she returned, dipping her head in the greeting Papa had taught her. “You can call me Amara, I don’t mind.”

The blonde spoke up. “Hello, Amara. I’m Astrid, leader of this Sanctuary.” Her expression was inscrutable.

A frightened chill swept up the little Nord’s spine. “Oh!” she said, dismayed. She reached out blindly and grasped a handful of Cicero’s tunic. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m not making trouble for you, am I? I don’t want to, I’m sorry!” She hadn’t even considered the possibility, so consumed had she been by fear of the entire Family. But this was political, wasn’t it? Papa had often spoken about such adult things, preparing Alar (and her, to a lesser extent) for the courts of the Jarl. Their time in the Imperial capital had only reinforced those lessons.

In her experience, adults did not take kindly to their authority being undermined.

Astrid looked quite taken aback by Amara’s exclamation, her eyes widening as she drew back a fraction. Then, abruptly, her expression shuttered and became unreadable. “There’s no need to be afraid, Listener,” she said slowly. “You’re doing fine.”

“Just fine,” Cicero agreed with a placid smile that didn’t hide a razor edge, combing her sleep-tousled blonde curls back with his fingers. “Little Listener is still little. Leave the politics to the grownups, hm?”

Amara opened her mouth and abruptly shut it as Cicero ushered her to a chair at the table. She was young, yes, and certainly naïve, but she wasn’t an idiot. There was unspoken tension between Cicero and Astrid, but she didn’t have a clue as to why it was there or what she should do about it. So she did what she always did: she shut her mouth and did her best to be invisible.

Veezara, who she was sitting next to, shot her a kind smile and slid a mug of tea over. “Do you like tea with honey, Amara?” he asked. She nodded wordlessly and took it, pressing her palms tightly to the warm metal and inhaling the sharp aroma of whatever Argonian blend he’d made. Cicero came back from the fire with two plates and a mug for himself, setting one of the plates in front of Amara before taking his seat next to her.

Amara munched wordlessly on her bread and cheese after offering a prayer of thanks to the Nine. Others slowly trickled as the minutes accumulated. First was a drowsy, irritable-looking Redguard who was introduced to her as Nazir. The man himself offered a grunt of acknowledgement as he shambled over to the fire and started brewing some bitter-smelling Redguard drink.

Next was a graceful dunmer woman who regarded Amara with curious, knowing red eyes, robes impeccable and not a hair out of place. “Hello, little sister,” she said pleasantly. “I am Gabriella. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

_ Little sister. _ For a second, Amara’s throat closed and her eyes blurred with tears. _ Alar,  _ a part of her whispered forlornly. She blinked rapidly, forced the lump away, and offered what she hoped was a steady smile to Gabriella. “Pleasure,” she forced out in response.

But these were assassins, the best of the best, who could read body language and subtle cues as easily as she would read a book. Gabriella blinked, surprised by Amara’s reaction to her innocent words. “Listener? Are you alright?” she asked, taking a seat directly in front of the girl and leaning intently on the table. “What did I say?”

“Nothing,” Amara said quickly, reluctant to bring up her brother (her über-powerful, impressive,  _ Dragonborn _ brother) to these quasi strangers. “It’s...nothing.”

“Right,” Gabriella said disbelievingly, but she dropped it when Amara stared down at her hands and refused to look up.

A distraction emerged at that moment in the form of two more assassins; an old man in well-worn robes and a young girl around Amara’s age. The old man spotted her first, a wide grin crossing his gnarled face.

“Well then!” he said, his voice deep and scratchy. “There’s the Listener! Welcome to the Sanctuary, girl. You can call me Festus.”

Amara was busy staring at the little girl by Festus’s side, her eyes wide with surprise.  _ Am I not the only child?  _ she wondered. Perhaps the average assassin was quite different from the stories. Was ‘family’ literal?

“Hello,” the other girl said in a slow, considering kind of voice. “My name is Babette.”

“I—” the words stalled in her throat as Babette came close enough for Amara to see her eyes. They were red, bright red, and her heart sank. “Oh, you’re a vampire,” she said, disappointed.

Babette stiffened, her expression shuttering abruptly. “Is that a problem, Listener?” She asked coolly.

Amara realized her misstep and paled. “No! No no no, I just… I’m sorry, I thought you were like—like me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… no. Sorry.”

“Ah.” Babette relaxed, a rueful smile crossing her face. “It’s alright, Amara. I guess that would be a bit of a disappointment.”

Amara stopped talking after that, but it was nearly impossible to fade from notice when they were all  _ staring  _ at her. Her face was warm with what felt like a permanent blush. As soon as she finished scarfing down her breakfast she pushed away from the table, mumbled an excuse to Cicero, and hastily retreated back to Mother’s chapel.

“I miss my home,” she whispered to Mother, though her supernatural presence wasn’t present. She fought to keep her breath even. “Not my house, I mean. My Home. With Mama and Papa and Alar.” She wiped hastily at her eyes and sniffled quietly. “This is… good, I guess. It’ll become my home. My Home.” The sarcophagus was cold where she leaned her head against it. “Eventually. I’m just afraid that it will take a long time.”

Amara shut her eyes tight and exhaled shakily. “Please don’t let it take a long time.”


	7. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amara begins training with her new family. The first part doesn’t go so well, and frankly she’s not sure the second part counts as training at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am still alive, just slow.

* * *

**Middas, Hearthfire 2, 4E201  
** **12:17pm  
** **Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, Falkreath Hold**

Cicero stood right behind Amara, close enough that she could feel the heat of his stomach against her shoulders, which was really the only thing keeping her in place as she stared up at the big, intimidating man before her. The man was staring back, arms crossed over his barrel-like chest. Something distinctly predatory lingered behind his stormy eyes, something that reminded Amara of the Companions. The twins, the ones that papa had occasionally hired to train Alar in arms, had the same kind of eyes.

Finally, he grunted and uncrossed his arms, startling her from her inspection of his face. “Alright. Come on, Pup,” he said. “No time like the present.”

“Wh—” Amara squeaked when Cicero pushed her forward. “What? What are we doing?”

“Training with Arnbjorn, Little Listener,” Cicero said cheerfully when the big man didn’t reply. Amara filed the name away. “You have much to learn.”

“Yeah, but I thought—from you?” she said, stumbling over her words as Cicero continued to urge her toward Arnbjorn (who she was beginning to suspect wanted to eat her.)

“Cicero is going to teach you other things,” he said. “But training is an excellent way to bond with your Family.”

Somehow, Amara doubted it was as simple as that. “Um... if you say so.”

Arnbjorn led them to a small training area, complete with racks of weapons and training dummies. “What’s your chosen weapon, Pup?” he asked gruffly.

“Papa was teaching me how to use a bow,” she offered tentatively. “And Alar and I used to spar with wooden swords sometimes. But, um… I’m really more of a mage. In training.” She trailed off awkwardly, cringing a little bit in anticipation of Arnbjorn’s reaction. Nords didn’t tend to take the last half of her declaration very well.

“HA!” Festus crowed loudly from an adjacent room. “TOLD YOU SHE’D TAKE AFTER ME, YOU BIG SHEEPDOG!”

Arnbjorn growled in Festus’s direction before turning back to Amara. “That’s all well and good, Pup, but what will you do when you run out of magicka? No, you need to be good with weapons too.”

Amara nodded. “Yeah, that’s what Mama said too.” He eyed her for a moment, as if expecting some kind of protest, before turning to a rack of one-handed swords. He examined them one by one, fingers ghosting over the polished blades. Amara watched curiously as he picked one up, tested its weight, and put it back with a dissatisfied grunt. The pattern repeated several times.

“...so tiny…” he grumbled to himself under his breath. “...even lift a good, solid blade?”

Amara considered speaking up and telling him that she’d never even picked up a true blade, much less trained with one, but her shy uncertainty won out and she kept her mouth shut. _No, I can’t lift a blade, that’s why I use magic,_ she thought petulantly.

“Perhaps you should start with wooden blades?” Cicero suggested in amusement.

Arnbjorn turned just enough to offer the Imperial a sneer. “Don’t have any,” he said shortly. “This is _Skyrim,_ Imp—Keeper. We train with the blades we use to stay alive, even the kids.”

 _I don’t think you’ve ever trained children,_ Amara thought skeptically, eyeing the rack of full-sized one-handed swords.

Arnbjorn stopped at the very bottom of the sword rack, picking up a smaller steel blade with intricate engraving covering the hilt and crossguard. He weighed it in his hand, examining the edge with a carefully neutral expression. “Here,” he said at length, flipping it in a single fluid motion and presenting her with the hilt. “Try this, Pup.”

Amara hesitantly wrapped her hand around the grip, her tiny, pale fingers a stark contrast to the assassin’s thick, scarred digits. He let go and her arm dropped as she took the full weight of the blade. “Oh!” she exclaimed, barely keeping the tip from clanging against the ground. It was heavier than she expected, taking both of her small hands to lift it into a decent ready position. The muscles in her shoulders quickly began to strain.

“Maybe I should go find a nice stick out in the woods to practice with?” she suggested somewhat desperately, fighting to keep the blade up. “I’m going to cut my arm off if I have to practice with this.”

“She has a point,” Veezara opined in amusement from the makeshift gallery, Babette and Gabrielle on either side. The girls were openly snickering. Amara stuck her tongue out at them when Arbnjorn looked away.

Arnbjorn hesitated, glancing from Amara (who was comically straining to keep the blade up) to Cicero (who entirely failed to keep the smug expression off his face). Amara could practically see the war in his head: risk maiming the Listener or give the stupid smug Imperial an excuse to gloat.

Finally, he growled in frustration and took the sword from her. “Go practice magic,” he groused, his expression like a thundercloud. “I’ll forge you a damn training sword _myself_.” Amara shrank back as he lumbered past, muttering peevishly under his breath.

Veezara chuckled and stood sinuously to his feet. “Don’t take it personally, Listener—ah, pardon, _Amara ._ Arnbjorn has very little experience with children.”

“He’s not exactly known for his patience either,” added Babette.

“I can tell,” Amara said, rubbing at her aching shoulders.

“Let’s try something else for a while,” the unchild said brightly, mischief glimmering in her eyes. “Festus is busy anyway, so you’ll have to work on your spells later.”

“Alright,” Amara agreed slowly. Something about Babette’s expression made her both excited and nervous. “What did you have in mind?”

* * *

 

 _My life is absurd,_ Amara realized as she shimmied into the gap between Mother’s sarcophagus and the wall. Veezara’s patient, mildly exasperated counting carried through the thin barrier of the stained glass, though she couldn’t tell what number he was on. _I’m playing hide-and-seek with assassins._

According to Babette, hide-and-seek was an excellent way to hone sneaking and detection skills, though Amara had serious doubts about whether or not this particular group had ever actually played together. In fact, she doubted whether _any_ assassins had ever used hide-and-seek as a training technique. Babette probably made it all up for an excuse to distract her. _Whatever,_ she decided. At least Cicero was playing too.

“Ready or not,” Veezara sing-songed. Amara pressed her ear to the cold window, shivering in her thin training leathers. “Here I come.”

The silence was deep enough that Amara could hear her heart beating in her ears. She concentrated on her breaths, slowing them and trying to draw in air completely silently. The seconds ticked by, each one winding her nerves a little tighter. She listed for footsteps, or shifting pebbles, or rustling cloth.

Nothing.

Well, she hadn’t been there for very long anyway. Maybe five minutes. They were probably being nice and coming for her last, which—wait. What was that? Amara froze, holding her breath.

Nothing happened.

It must have been her imagination. This place really had a way of making her paran—

“Found you!”

Amara shrieked in surprise and jerked away as Veezara appeared at the side of the sarcophagus. He reached for her, shoving his arm between the metal and glass, but Amara had moved out of his reach. Her surprise quickly shifted to something giddier and she laughed, wiggling free of her hiding space as he strained to tag her. “Catch me if you can!” she taunted, and darted off.

“I don’t think chasing was in the rules,” Veezara said, but he was laughing too.

The Argonian was fast, but Amara was faster. Or he was being nice. Either way, she pushed forward, clearing the stairs into the main cavern in a single leap. Breathless, she dashed on, startling Arnbjorn as she made for the atrium. She took the stairs two at a time and glanced back to see Veezara still on her heels. _New hiding place,_ she decided, putting on one last burst of speed.

Atstrid looked up, startled, as Amara burst into the atrium and made a dive for the map table. “Wh—“ the woman started as Amara curled up against the wall, using Astrid’s legs as cover. A few seconds later Veezara sprinted in.

“Ah, Astrid,” he said, sounding a little flustered. Amara wished she could see the woman’s expression. It must have been incredible. “Did you see where Amara went?” She held her breath at the question, one hand over her mouth.

Astrid was silent for a moment, shifting slightly on the balls of her feet. “Bedroom,” she said finally. Amara grinned behind her palm as Veezara moved toward the room—and away from her. As soon as he had left the atrium, she scrambled out from under the table and tiptoed toward the stairs. She glanced back and grinned at the smirking assassin in thanks before darting back into the main cavern.

Babette shrieked in outrage a moment later, apparently having chosen Astrid’s room as her own hiding place. Amara choked on a laugh and picked up her pace, making for the kitchen and it’s many small hiding spaces.

Maybe Astrid wasn’t so bad after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a two-part series (eventually), with "Dragon's Son" being from Alar's perspective.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Day and Night, Dragonborn and Listener, Brother and Sister](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15397674) by [All_Hail_Dovakiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_Hail_Dovakiin/pseuds/All_Hail_Dovakiin)




End file.
